Page 46 of Echo Road

Chapter 45

MERCY

“Ken Wells is not our killer!” Mercy shouted into the phone to be heard over Bree’s sirens as they sped to Don’s home. “It’s Don Dutton!” she told SAC Martinez, who was speechless on the other end of the line. She gave him a brief rundown of the shit show at the park while keeping both eyes on the road and traffic as Bree drove like a maniac.

The sheriff had just watched her officer get shot.

And had to leave.

What is Don doing with that boy?

“We’re almost to his house,” she told Martinez. “I doubt he went there because we know where he lives, but Paige might be inside.”

“We’re on our way, Kilpatrick.”

Mercy ended the call. “Your deputy will be OK,” she said to Bree, who blew out a breath.

“I know. He’s in good hands. But damn it was hard to leave him.” She glanced at Mercy. “I hope Paige is in Don’s house.”

I hope Paige is alive.

Bree sped down Don’s street.

“I don’t like that he tried to meet a new woman,” said Mercy. “That can’t mean anything good for Paige.” Bree blocked Don’s driveway with the SUV and let dispatch know they’d arrived.

No sightings had come in on the BOLO for Don’s vehicle.

Mercy scanned the front of the one-story house. “I can’t believe we were just here. That bastard shut his front door and took us to his garage so we wouldn’t see inside the home. I knew that blow-up doll was bullshit.”

“Let’s go.” Bree stepped out of the vehicle, and Mercy followed suit, her weapon in hand, appreciating the weight of the tactical vest even in the hundred-degree heat. A haze had settled over the area, and Mercy caught the faintest hint of smoke. She glanced to the east, noting how the haze in the sky was dense with an orange-gray tint. The wildfire was closer than she’d like.

Bree gestured for the two deputies who’d followed them to the scene to go to the back of the house. “Garage first,” she stated to Mercy, who nodded, knowing if Don’s Charger wasn’t in the garage, then he most likely wasn’t in the house. She followed two steps behind Bree and to her left to the side door of the garage. They each stepped to one side.

Bree raised a brow at Mercy, who shook her head. My back, she mouthed to Bree, knowing the door required a solid boot thrust near the handle, and her back pain would hamper her kick. Bree moved in front of the door, took two steps, and powered her boot against the hollow wood door. It splintered near the handle and swung inside the garage. Mercy slipped in and covered the area to the left as a second later Bree did the same, covering the right.

The Charger wasn’t in the garage.

Bree used her mic to notify the deputies behind the home.

“There’s nowhere to hide someone in here,” said Mercy. “Bare walls and concrete pad.” She eyed the blow-up doll, remembering how the men had laughed about it earlier. “Let’s clear the house.” She mentally crossed her fingers that Paige was inside and alive. The women moved out of the garage and to the home’s front door.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mercy saw a small group of neighbors gathering across the street to watch. “Shit. They need to get out of here.” Don could be armed in the home or nearby. They didn’t need another innocent bystander taken hostage or shot.

“Get inside your homes!” Bree hollered in a much louder voice than Mercy expected. “This is a dangerous police action! Our suspect is armed!”

They immediately scattered at Bree’s last shout. People were curious until they knew they could get shot.

“Randolph County Sheriff! Open the door!” shouted Bree.

They took the same positions at the front door as they had at the garage. They paused for a few seconds, looked at each other, and shook their heads at the same time.

No one would be coming to the door.

Bree told her deputies to hold their positions at the back of the house and then drove her boot into the front door. She stumbled backward with a grunt as the door held firm.

“It didn’t move at all,” said Mercy, studying the door. It was solid and heavy, unlike the hollow-core door of the garage. She touched the painted frame. Metal?

To keep someone inside.

“I have a battering ram in my vehicle.”

“Maybe the back door isn’t as strong?” asked Mercy. Bree nodded and spoke into her mic to ask the deputies what the back door was like.

“I think it’s a sliding glass door,” came the answer. “But it’s covered with plywood. So is every window on the back of the house.”

Bree met Mercy’s gaze.

We’re in the right spot.

Mercy took a few steps to the side to study the closest window. Some sort of wood shutter inside blocked her view. “This looks easier to breach than trying to rip off plywood.”

“Be right back.” Bree ran to her vehicle, returning a moment later with the battering ram and two sets of eye protection. She handed one to Mercy, who slipped them on. The window was large, designed to give the living area an expansive view of the outdoors.

Bree swung the battering ram and broken glass fell to the ground. She continued until one large pane was cleared and then focused on the wooden shutter slats inside. Mercy had stepped back, watching behind them and keeping an eye on all other windows.

The wooden shutters were no match for the ram. Bree notified her deputies that they were entering and gestured at Mercy, who bent over and stepped through the pane, leading with her weapon, scanning all corners of the living area. “Clear.”

Bree was a half step behind. “Randolph County Sheriff!” she yelled again.

Inside was dim. All the windows were covered with locked shutters, and only the overhead lights in the kitchen were on. They were in a room separated from the kitchen by a small island. It had a large sectional, a TV, and a few easy chairs.

“Smells like bad cheese,” whispered Mercy, switching to breathing through her mouth.

“And old fish.”

Mercy’s stomach twisted. “Go,” she whispered. Bree led the way with Mercy behind, resting one hand on Bree’s shoulder, keeping them in tune with the other person’s movements. They cleared a hall closet and a filthy bathroom with a disgusting tub. Next down the hall was a small dark bedroom. Bree flipped the light switch, and they found cardboard boxes nearly stacked to the ceiling along one wall and a battered desk. The room’s window was covered with plywood on the inside.

“Plywood inside and out?” muttered Bree. “This house is a cage.”

“Computer is gone,” Mercy said, nodding at the distinctive clean rectangle visible in the dust. Bree cleared the closet and they moved to the next bedroom. Again, plywood had been nailed inside the window. A weight bench, its padding split, and a few stacks of weights were the only items in the room. Bree opened the closet and found a large gun safe, its door ajar.

Four guns were in a neat row, and the small shelves were packed with ammunition and three handguns. Mercy’s gaze locked on the weapons, wondering if one had been fired at her. Bree was already leaving the room. Their goal was to check for people; evidence could be collected later.

The farthest door down the hall was closed. Three bolts locked it from the outside.

“Jesus,” Mercy breathed.

Was Paige locked inside?

“Randolph County Sheriff!” Bree yelled at the locked door. “Stand back! We’re coming through!” She nodded at Mercy, who slid the bolts and thrust the door open. Bree entered, covering the left of the room, and Mercy behind, covering the right. The light was already on in the room.

Mercy held her breath. The room smelled as if a sweaty football team had been locked inside for a month.

A dog crate.

The large wire cage was empty, and a stained pad lay halfway out its open door.

Bree cleared the closet and Mercy checked under the large bed. “That’s it,” she said to Bree, her voice oddly high. “There’s no one here.”

Bree spoke into her mic, telling the deputies the home was clear. “How’s the backyard?” she asked.

“Chain-link fence,” said someone. “No outbuildings.”

“Is it all grass? Flower beds?” She met Mercy’s gaze.

The radio was silent for a long moment. “Overgrown with weeds and grass,” said the deputy. “No recently disturbed dirt.”

He’d known what Bree was asking.

Now what?

“We have to figure out where he took her,” stated Bree. She strode out of the room.

Mercy lingered, unable to look away from the dog crate, knowing Paige had likely been locked inside. On the floor of the room were a pile of clothing—most of it pink—and two pairs of spiked heels. A few lipsticks were on the floor, lined up end to end next to a half dozen pink hair accessories in a neat row.

Dollification.

“He treated her like his personal toy,” Mercy said out loud to no one, trying not to think of how destroyed Paige must have felt when her dream man and new life turned into piles of dirty junk on the floor. She spun around and blindly left the room.

We’re too late.

“Mercy.” Bree’s voice coming from the main room sounded strained. On edge, Mercy drew her weapon and slowly moved down the hall until she saw Bree in the kitchen, leaning against the small island.

“Are you OK?” Mercy asked as she checked the room with the TV again. Clear. She holstered her weapon.

Bree shook her head and wiped her cheeks, staring at the floor.

Outside the voices of the other deputies came through the broken window.

“I’ll unlock the front door in a moment,” Mercy yelled back. She joined Bree, realizing the sheriff was seriously rattled. “We’re going to find her,” Mercy told Bree, feeling as if she were telling the biggest lie of her career.

“No ... no ... not that.” Bree wouldn’t look at her. She gave a futile gesture at the fridge.

Confused, Mercy slipped on a glove, grabbed the fridge handle, and pulled.

She lost her breath as she stared.

No . . . no . . . no!

It was a dead naked woman. The fridge’s shelves had been removed, and she sat with her back against a side wall, folded into the small space with her knees nearly in her face.

Mercy slammed the door shut and fought to find her breath.

How could he? How?

She steeled her stomach and slowly opened the door again. Long dark hair covered most of the woman’s face, and her skin had an odd texture—too dry. Her flesh had shrunk and pulled tight to her bones.

“Like Vanessa Mullen,” she whispered, remembering the partially mummified corpse at the medical examiner’s. Behind her, Bree made a small sound.

Pink fingernails . . . and toenails.

Mercy made herself reach in and draw the hair out of the victim’s face. Her hand trembled as she exposed the heart-shaped tattoo above the woman’s withered breast. She forced herself to study the profile. “I don’t think it’s Paige,” she said softly. “The shape of her jaw and her forehead is all wrong. And I think she’s been dead a lot longer than Paige has been missing.”

She sensed Bree move closer, her stressed breathing growing louder.

“Oh, my God,” said Bree. “There’s fucking food on the door shelves. He still used it for food!” The sheriff whirled away and vomited in the sink.

Mercy fought to keep her stomach under control, bile rising in the back of her throat. She gently closed the door, hating to put the woman back in the dark. But she and Bree needed time to pull themselves together.

“Hey, boss?” came a voice at the window again. “All good in there?”

“Just a minute,” Mercy answered in a hoarse voice. She set a hand on Bree’s back as the sheriff leaned on her forearms over the sink. “We’ll get him,” she said firmly. “We’ll lock up his ass.”

Bree spit in the sink. “If I don’t shoot him first.”

“You just created quite the scene contamination,” Mercy said.

Bree’s torso shook with silent laughter. “Shall I rinse it away or leave it for forensics?”

Mercy reached over her and turned on the water. “I assume you don’t want a glass from his cupboard to rinse your mouth?”

“Fuck no,” said Bree. She cupped her hand in the stream to drink and then rinsed the sink and ran the disposal. “There’s enough evidence in this shithole to lock him up. I think they can overlook me barfing in the sink.” She straightened, her eyes still damp. “That’s one of the worst things I’ve ever seen ... especially since we have a good idea what that woman went through.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I bet it’s Missy Star. The prostitute that Shelly Fox reported missing.”

“You’re probably right,” said Mercy. “I’m going to open the front door now. You good?”

“Yeah.”

Mercy went to the front door and stopped. “He added three locks to this door,” she said in disgust. “And they have to be unlocked with a key from the inside. He must have gone out the front door, because none are engaged. Only the standard bolt is locked ... which has to be done with a key from the outside.”

“Of course he went out the front door,” commented Bree. “Every other exit is boarded up.”

Mercy opened the door to the impatiently waiting deputies.

“Get a crime scene unit out here,” Bree told the deputies, command back in her voice. “And cordon off the property. No one comes near.”

Mercy wandered back down the hall, still trying to calm her stomach. She wanted to get out of the stinking house, but felt as if she’d be abandoning Paige ... and the woman in the fridge. She returned to the room with the dog crate and a burst of anger wiped away her nausea.

“There’s a closet right there,” she muttered, eyeing the hanging menswear. “He wouldn’t even let her hang up her clothes.” She squatted and gently sorted through Paige’s wrinkled clothing pile, stopping on a stretchy, short black dress.

The slut dress.

Finn’s description of his sister’s dress.

And her red spiked heels.

Mercy took a deep breath, glad it was Evan’s job to update Paige’s parents.

The pile of clothing smelled as if they’d never been washed. Mercy found a dog collar under the pile and a pair of handcuffs.

That poor girl.

Her gaze went to the lipsticks and hair accessories. It looked like the collection of a ten-year-old girl who loved pretty things and lined them up neatly with care and pride. Unlike the clothes.

Maybe he made her organize them. He seems like the type that wants things a certain way.

Mercy froze as she noted the lipsticks weren’t parallel with the hair things. The row of end-to-end lipsticks angled away ... as if pointing at the crate. Her heart beating hard, Mercy shoved the crate aside.

Paige had left a message on the floor in lipstick.